


An Imperfect Understanding

by undun



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Crime Scenes, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: off-screen violence/murder (child). This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

**Prelude**  
  
  
John Watson found it difficult to remember when it had started – when he’d gone from being Sherlock Holmes’ trusted friend to Sherlock Holmes’… Well, he was still the man’s trusted friend, to be sure, yet that was not all that he was.  
  
What did you call the man who came to you when you needed release from the burdens of your work, from the constant moral dilemmas that beset you, or from those inconvenient inner demons that would rise to torment? What did you call the man who understood that you were not an invert any more than he was; that it simply felt better to have another’s hand on you? And, if that hand should belong to one you would trust with your life, then should you not embrace such a serendipitous occurrence and enjoy the relief he could bring?  
  
What more than a trusted friend could John Watson be? What more was he to Holmes when the man turned to him and grasped his hard cock, sliding his fingers in a firm grip, watching intently – with no sign of that habitual sleepy disinterest of the mundane and predictable – for Watson’s headlong fall into a glorious abyss?  
  
Watson knew not what to call himself. He doubted very much that Holmes would consider the question relevant. They were what they were: friends.  
  
Certainly not lovers.  
  
  
 **1.**  
  
A little girl had died.  
  
Watson knew that Sherlock Holmes’ antipathy towards women did not extend to children, whom Holmes saw as unfinished works; essentially innocent and in a state of grace. Even the most wretched little street Arabs could rely on Sherlock Holmes for a fair hearing, and, more often than not, a coin surreptitiously slipped into their palm.  
  
Watson knew his own sorrow was deep – guilt crusted the edges like glass shards. Rationally, he knew that they could not have influenced the outcome; the damage had been done when her parents had waited before contacting Holmes. The bumbling of the local police had given the villain a head start. The die had been cast. Rationally, he knew all this yet still felt culpable. And with all this rational knowledge he knew Holmes would feel the effects multiplied.  
  
Holmes always took his responsibilities to his clients to heart. It shook both his pride and his confidence when he did not achieve a good and just outcome for those that came to him for assistance. Of course, he had not charged a fee for helping the Dunstables find their daughter – and indeed, he had found her, albeit too late to save her – and he would often waive a fee if he felt he had under-performed on a case. This case went far deeper than pride, however; this case would send him into his own personal hell for a time, and would no doubt add material to a mind already haunted by horrors of the past.  
  
It had not been a merciful death. Watson wished that the same method could be applied to her murderer; hanging was far too humane a fate.  
  
They took their leave of the grieving Dunstables, halting at the village briefly while Watson called at the rooms of their family doctor and explained what had occurred. The man took up hat and bag with pleasing alacrity. And then they made their way to the train station, finding that the next train heading into London was only minutes from leaving. Watson hadn’t even thought to consult his Bradshaw – his distress had eased to apathy and he cared not for the length of their journey. His only concern now was for Holmes, and any urgent need to be home was solely for his sake. He studied his friend for brief moments throughout their journey, when he could drag his mind away from his sore ponderings, and he was made anxious by what he saw. Holmes sat unmoving save for the jostle of their carriage as it passed over the tracks, stumbled through junctions, and gingerly eased around imperfectly man made curves.  _An imperfect man_ , Watson thought,  _yet always expecting himself to be perfection._  
  
With a squeal of brakes and a shout from the conductor, they arrived at their station. Holmes gave no particular reaction but stood and gathered his coat and scarf. His eyes flickered over Watson’s concerned face seemingly without recognition. Watson was filled with foreboding; he knew what came next.  
  
Mrs Hudson was still about when Watson turned the key in the lock of their door. She bustled and clucked, took coats and hats for brushing, promised tea in an instant and vanished behind the stairs like a small but comforting hurricane passing. Watson climbed the stairs wearily, gratefully. Holmes followed; a hollow-eyed ghost yet to utter a sound. Watson did not hide his scrutiny as they achieved their sitting room. He was aware that Holmes was aware of it, and the man would have to look up and speak if he expected Watson to desist.  
  
Mrs Hudson bustled in with the promised tea tray, accompanied by biscuits and sliced cheese. Watson’s appetite was indomitable; army life had honed it to an accurate and reliable instrument, yet tonight he could do nothing with the food before him. He stared at the table and saw small limbs and blood. He poured two cups of tea and brought one to Holmes who stood as if not quite knowing where he was. Watson captured one of the detective’s hands, pressed a cup into it and led him to his chair by the elbow. He took his own cup and sat down opposite.  
  
“Speak, Holmes,” he pleaded.  
  
There was a long moment of silence, then, “I have no words.”  
  
“Alright then, drink instead.”  
  
Another long moment passed and Holmes drank his tea. After a while Watson took their cups back to the table and pulled Holmes to his feet.  
  
“You are all in, my dear chap, and you need to sleep.” Watson traded on years of familiarity and friendship to issue this proclamation. “Come, into bed with you now,” he insisted, pulling Holmes’ hand. The man followed meekly enough until they stood inside his doorway, then–  
  
“I’ll thank you to leave me now, Watson,” Holmes said with a trace of his usual imperious manner. It was the most he had said since leaving the Dunstables’ house.  
  
“Holmes, I wish to assist you. I… fear for you, old man.”  
  
Holmes waved a negligent hand. “There is no need. I shall be fine now.” He looked at Watson finally, his eyes hollowed out caverns. “Thank you, Watson.”  
  
It was a carefully toned put down; dismissing Watson as if he was a pushy valet.  
  
“Oh, no you don’t! I know you, Holmes – and I know damned well what you are planning to do now,” Watson ground out. He now knew equal parts anger and anxiety.  
  
“Watson, are you saying that you have managed to make a deduction? Bravo, old boy; I always knew you had it in you,” Holmes drawled.  
  
“Yes. I have. And you are proving me right with every syllable. You mean to put me off with slights and veiled insults, then you will take off your coat, roll your left sleeve to the elbow and fill yourself with narcotics in a doomed attempt to escape the horrors that were visited upon an innocent child. A child you, quite mistakenly, believe that you should have been able to save.” Watson heaved a breath. “Then you will lie down on your bed, fully dressed, and fall asleep uncovered, turning blue as the temperature drops and the fire dies down. You will remain blissfully unaware of the peril that you have put yourself in because you will be  _out of your mind._  It is a place that you have no wish to inhabit at the moment,” Watson finished, his voice softening to a harsh whisper.  
  
Holmes’ looked at him, his eyes, if possible, even more wounded. His surprise at Watson’s harangue gave him a vulnerable, childlike expression.  
  
“Watson, I…”  
  
“I will stay with you, Holmes. I will help you get through this night.”  
  
“You… will stay? In my room?” Holmes asked, his bafflement complete.  
  
Watson almost smiled at the detective’s complete inability to have foreseen Watson’s attack, then he stopped, the edges of his mouth falling when he realised what Holmes’ small failure of deduction could mean on top of his more tragic failure today.  
  
“I mean to help you, my friend. I mean to keep you from that needle.”  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

Watson’s plan came very close to failing. He woke to find himself alone in the darkness of Holmes’ room – a faint light glimmered from the open doorway.  
  
“Damnation,” Watson grunted, jerking upright and stumbling towards the door.  
  
“Blast and damn!” The gloom had conspired to hide obstacles in his path and he’d barked his shin on Holmes’ old trunk. He continued into the sitting room and found Holmes sitting at his desk, a candle in front of him. The case holding his hypodermic was open on the desk and Watson’s heart hit two beats in the space of one.  
  
“I do hope you were not attempting stealth just now, Watson. If you had, I would feel compelled to inform you that the attempt was a complete failure.”  
  
Watson had no time for clever repartee. It was late, he was exhausted and he was afraid.  
  
“Have you taken the drug, Holmes? What have you taken?” he asked hoarsely.  
  
“You must be able to tell, Doctor – it is your field: deduce!”  
  
“Damn it, Holmes! This is not a game I play for your amusement–”  
  
“Oh, I am not amused, Watson. Most certainly I am not amused. I’m not sure when I will feel amusement again – it may be a very long time indeed,” Holmes’ voice trailed off, as if he had forgotten he had an audience.  
  
Watson huffed in exasperation. “Tell me!” he pleaded, stepping up beside Holmes’ chair. He looked down and saw the hypodermic in the open case; its depressor pushed home, the chamber empty. His stomach clenched as he stared at Holmes’ profile. The man’s face had sickly sheen of perspiration.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“What?” Watson could make no sense of Holmes’ response. Was he talking about his thoughts, his opinion of his life and work – or did he mean that Watson could do nothing to help him now?  
  
“I have taken nothing, Watson,” came the quiet reply. “I have been here some fifteen minutes staring at it,” he gave a nod at the desk and its contents, “I have the vial in my hand,” Watson stared down as Holmes opened his fist to show a small dose bottle of–  
  
“Morphine,” Watson whispered, trying not to upset the strange air of the room. “You haven’t injected it.”  
  
“No. I… Watson, I–” Holmes gave a great shuddering sigh. Watson could hear suppressed tears within it.  
  
“Come back to bed, Holmes,” he said gently. “Come.” He tugged Holmes’ hand open again, taking and pocketing the vial of morphine. The man did not resist, did not meet his searching eyes. Watson gently urged him to his feet, guiding him to his bedroom, and then Holmes collapsed on his bed with a moan.  
  
“I will not sleep, Watson. I cannot sleep.”  
  
“You have exhausted yourself, physically and mentally, dear chap. I cannot remember the last time you slept. Your nerves are over run, and we have had a dreadful outcome on this Godforsaken case. It is no surprise you are in extremis, my friend. I know you must feel as if you cannot bear it, but I also know that you are the strongest man I have ever met–”  
  
“No, no! I am a feeble-minded fool!”  
  
“No. You are not. You are in the very worst distress, and you can’t remember the countless examples of your own valuable work, and the many who have benefited from your genius and generosity.”  
  
Holmes had finally looked up at him; he appeared startled. “Watson, I am not that man,” he objected.  
  
Watson placed the candle he had retrieved from the sitting room on Holmes’ dresser. “Yes, you are,” he stated calmly. He stood by the bed looking down at his friend. “Do you care to move over?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Watson gestured down at the bed. “If you move over I might lie down next to you and spare my spine further punishment tonight,” he explained.  
  
“There is no need to stay in my room any longer, Watson – go to your bed and get some sleep. You have been awake almost as long as I, you must be very tired, dear chap. I’m sorry I have kept you from your rest.”  
  
“Nonsense, Holmes. You haven’t kept me from anything – I made the decision to stay with you tonight, so you are burdened with my company ‘til morning. Now, I simply wish to make my stay a bit more comfortable, if you would be so kind as to share half of your bed?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Holmes replied, moving over to the side. “I hope that you may sleep despite my wakefulness,” he commented in flat tone.  
  
Watson yawned at length, pulling off his boots clumsily. “I’m not sure that you’d find it possible to keep me awake at his point,” he said with a small smile, “and perhaps my example will inspire a similar state in you.”  
  
Holmes had lain upon his back, hands atop one another on his dressing gown. Watson lay down next to him and drew the blanket over the top of them both. “This is a good deal more comfortable than your blasted chair,” he commented softly, then closed his eyes.  
  
It seemed only seconds later he was startled awake by Holmes’ inarticulate shout. Watson reached out blindly, grappling with Holmes’ whirling arm.  
  
“It’s alright! Holmes, it is me, Watson. It was a nightmare,” he said urgently, trying to pierce through the fog of Holmes’ panic.  
  
“Watson!” Holmes breathed, his shoulders shook under Watson’s hands. “Sweet Christ, Watson–” Holmes’ hands came up to grip Watson’s elbows hard enough to bruise. His voice sounded choked.  
  
“My God, tell me what is the matter, Holmes?”  
  
He could just make out Holmes shaking his head side to side in distress, his features indistinct in the darkened room.  
  
“I cannot get them out of my head, Watson. It is killing… I need the morphine!”  
  
“Whom are you talking about – do you mean Emily?” he asked. Holmes’ hands dropped away from his elbows and he gave trembling sigh.  
  
“Emily. Yes, she and all the rest. God! I cannot stand this any longer,” Holmes hissed. He moved out from under Watson’s hold and sat up. “I must use my hypodermic, Watson.”  
  
“No, Holmes – you must not!” Watson objected. “To do so while you are in this state would be inviting addiction once more. Your health will suffer, perhaps irreparably.”  
  
Watson groped on the table for a match to light the candle he had left there. By its light he was finally able to see Holmes’ face and he was shocked to see silent tears running down his friend’s face. Holmes did not seem aware of them.  
  
“Holmes, my dear fellow – how I feel for you, my friend!” He reached out a hand and gripped the man’s arm. “Tell me how I can help; I will do anything to help you,” he said urgently.  
  
“Then you must beat me, Watson,” Holmes said, his voice devoid of inflection. “You must hit me with all your strength so that it is all that I can feel.”  
  
“Holmes, no! I could never do such a thing to you!”  
  
Holmes turned and looked over his shoulder at Watson. “Then I’m for the injection.”  
  
Watson sat up quickly. “Wait!”  
  
He racked his brain for a solution to Holmes’ despair. If he could not do as his friend suggested – and there was simply no way he could lay hands on Holmes to injure him – then what else could he do to ease his suffering?  
  
The answer, when it came, was obvious.  
  
“Lay down, Holmes. I can help you.”  
  
His friend lay back on the pillows wordlessly, his shoulders hunched with tension. Watson studied him briefly.  _I can do this for him,_  he thought,  _my dearest friend is suffering and this will ease it._  He pinched fingers over the candlewick, snuffing out the flame and plunging the room back into darkness. He pulled the bedclothes back over them both and opened Holmes’ dressing gown.  
  
“Watson?”  
  
Surprise coloured Holmes’ voice. Watson could picture the quizzical look that must be on his friend’s face. “Shh,” he whispered. “Let me do this for you, old man.”  
  
“What are you–”  
  
“No more talk, Holmes,” he interrupted. “Just close your eyes and feel my hands on you. Let yourself go where I lead you,” he whispered against the man’s ear.  
  
“Trust me.”  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off-screen violence: killing of an animal, psychological abuse of a child. This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

Holmes lay gasping like a landed fish, every second breath a short, high-pitched sigh. Watson had a palm over his chest, crudely monitoring his heartbeat. He had felt it when it began to slow and steady, just as the man’s breathing deepened and slowed. Holmes had eased the death grip he had around Watson’s shoulders and rolled back onto the bed from where he’d lifted in an arch and spent into Watson’s hands.

Holmes lifted his hand to cover Watson’s on his chest.

“Watson, you are extraordinary,” he panted.

“Not at all, Holmes.”

Watson felt awkward in the aftermath of Holmes’ orgasm – one that he had brought about. This was not a situation that they had any experience of dealing with, however; it was an action he had taken for the health of his friend, and was therefore thoroughly defensible in his position as his doctor. He felt better after this thought and decided to carry on as if nothing untoward had occurred.

He groped on the dresser again to light the candle. By its light he finished wiping his hand on his pocket-handkerchief and turned to ask Holmes if he needed to clean himself. The words lodged halfway in his throat as he took in the sight of Holmes in the flickering light; his body was completely relaxed, his dressing gown framing a nightshirt pushed up to the waist; his face lax and a hand half-curled on the pillow next to his head. The man was so far asleep that Watson would have mistaken him for dead if not for the regular rise and fall of his chest. Watson shook his head slowly, a smile lifting his mouth for the first time in three days.

Watson leaned over to pull Holmes’ nightshirt down; a fingertip bade a whimsical farewell to Holmes’ organ as it disappeared from view. He next tied Holmes’ gown loosely and pulled up the bedclothes over his insensate friend. He felt a certain secret pleasure in knowing what he now knew. He had experienced Holmes’ most private moment, had brought the man such physical pleasure…

Watson stamped any further thoughts out like spot fires that threatened a catastrophic conflagration. He took the candle from the dresser and negotiated his way to his own chill room, the cool air a counteracting force for the heat of his body. It also loosened the hardness hidden beneath his clothes.

He was a doctor and he had administered a cure. That was all.

*

The next several days seemed slightly odd to Watson. Holmes treated him with a fond courtesy – they dined out no less that three times in one week – and Watson sometimes felt his gaze upon the back of his neck while he sat at the writing desk drafting his current narrative. If he turned his head to confirm his suspicion he would never see Holmes looking back at him; the man would either be deep in some arcane text, or leafing through the papers searching for a new case to engage his interest. Watson would shrug and turn back to his work until the room grew too small and the walls too close, then he would opt for a walk to the park and invariably Holmes would accompany him.

Holmes had always liked to study him – Watson was well used to being the subject upon which Holmes would rehearse his deductive reasoning skills. There was just more studying and less deduction. Eventually, Watson grew used to the new level of scrutiny and forgot to notice it.

There were new cases, some very profitable, and Holmes continued to treat Watson to dinner two or three times a week when their work permitted. Watson kept writing and a new story appeared in The Strand. Holmes did not rip it to shreds with rapier sharp wit. In fact, Watson had no idea whether he’d even bothered to read it, though Watson left the magazine lying around the sitting room for two weeks.

Then came the case of a slow boy and his dog.

There was simply no reason the case should have come to the notice of Sherlock Holmes. It was an outlying town – again – and a child had gone missing – again. There was nothing at all extraordinary in the circumstances, and more often than not in such cases the child was recovered; either having run off in a fit of petulance or adventurousness, or having been taken for lark by some older children and dumped somewhere in the general vicinity after the young thugs’d had their fun. Such children would be a little worse for wear, but unless the abductors were true villains, then the victim recovered well enough, and learned to be wary of wandering about alone.

This particular boy was simple. By sad coincidence, his parents had named him Simon before they knew of his affliction. He was not known to wander far afield, and his dog acted as his guardian, learning from the time of the boy’s first stumbling steps that he had to be shepherded away from danger.

The boy had not been returned, and his pet dog had not been seen either. Watson felt his stomach clench as Holmes explained the particulars to him during the train ride. His anxiety for the boy was significantly smaller than his anxiety for his friend. He didn’t write about Holmes’ failures, not unless there was a humourous or happy ending, and he had a presentiment that this would be another case that would never be written in his hand.

The parents, honest and unsophisticated people, lived near the town of Reading some forty miles distant from London. Their astonishment at having Sherlock Holmes arrive unannounced on their doorstep would have made Watson smile in any other circumstances.

“Pray, sit down, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Wheeler said, indicating a comfortable chair near the fireplace.

Watson forgave the poor woman for ignoring him – all her attention focussed on the one person she now hoped would return her lost child.

“Can you help us, sir?” asked her husband in a gruff voice. “I’m afraid we have not the funds to hire your services, but our neighbours might help with a payment of some kind.”

Watson’s heart went out to the man. It must have cost his pride dearly to admit to their impoverishment.

“I have no interest in being paid for my services in this case, Mr Wheeler,” responded Holmes. “As yet I am unsure of my ability to see to the safe return of your son. You must tell me all you remember of the incident, both directly before his disappearance, and directly afterwards.”

Watson leaned against the doorjamb, took out his notebook and pencil, and nodded wordlessly at Holmes’ quick glance.

*

They had managed to retrieve the boy less than a day later from inside an isolated shepherd’s hut. He was hungry, tearful and terrified. Holmes ascertained that the faithful dog had been tortured and killed in front of the bound boy until Simon had lost his voice from screaming. The poor creature could have run off at any point, up until it had been roped by the kidnapper once trapped within the hut. Watson felt his gorge rise as he stared at the remains of the animal. It was not the physical blood and gore that disgusted him – that was simply bone and tissue and viscera; it was the evidence of a mind warped by pitiless cruelty. It was always scenes such these that truly disturbed him. Give him an honest fight, or a straightforward war; the pointless torture of a beloved and loyal animal enraged him whilst also filling him with despair.

It was not long after, using information supplied by Holmes, that the local police force apprehended the man responsible for the outrage. Watson was angry that he would not swing for his crime, but slaughter of an animal was not a hanging offence. Of his kidnapping of the boy… a just outcome was not assured. The main witness was the boy himself who could not testify due his feeble-mindedness. With a clever legal representative, the villain might be out of gaol in five years or less.

However, Holmes was quietly pleased. The boy was safe in the arms of his grateful and relieved mother. The sight of the boy’s father briskly wiping his eyes before stomping out of their humble house to chop wood gladdened Watson’s heart. The couple valued their freckled young son with all their heart, seeming not to care anything for his lack of intellectual abilities.

They spent train ride back to London in silent companionship. Watson was aware that he sighed deeply on occasion. Later that night Watson’s sleep was disturbed by a tendency to wake suddenly, his mind filled with the sight of blood and torn limbs. His impotent rage made his heart beat fast and a sweat break out across his forehead. He attempted to calm himself and go back to sleep, but could not settle for long. He sighed and swung his legs out of the bed. The night was not cold and he decided to go down to the sitting room and retrieve a yellow-backed novel he had left there.

He was surprised to see the gas lamps lit when he opened the door. Holmes was sitting at the desk and Watson was at once alarmed to see his syringe case open in front of him.

“God, no, Holmes!” he said in fear, “Tell me that you haven’t injected that poison, I beg you!” Watson strode quickly to Holmes’ side and looked down at the hypodermic nestled in the green felt lining.

When he met his friend’s eyes he was puzzled to see Holmes smiling faintly. “I find it easy to grant your request, dear Watson; I have not injected that poison’, so you may rest your mind on that score.”

“You haven’t,” Watson repeated, swallowing hard in relief.

“Indeed not,” Holmes confirmed.

“I see.” Watson sighed and looked around the room – he was unable to remember why he’d come downstairs.

“Perhaps you were looking for your book?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said with surprise. “How did you know?”

“Watson, it is well after midnight, you are in your nightclothes, your hair is shamefully ruffled and you show every sign of being unable to sleep. No doubt you thought to divert yourself with an adventure novel of a disgracefully romantic nature.” Holmes gestured with a languid hand. “It is on the coffee table where you left it two days ago.”

“Oh.” Watson took a step and stopped, turning back to Holmes. “You are unable to sleep?”

“I’m finding my mind filled with unwelcome memories just now,” the man admitted quietly.

“And you find the needle tempting?” Watson persisted.

Holmes looked up and their eyes locked for a heartbeat. Holmes looked back at the Moroccan case in front of him. “I’m finding it… difficult… to resist.”

“The solution we discovered last time… was it effective?”

Watson watched in fascination as Holmes’ throat bobbed with a swallow. He’d never seen Holmes do anything remotely awkward before.

“Yes. It proved quite therapeutic,” Holmes said in a clipped tone.

“Then, by all means, dear chap – allow me to render you assistance again!”

Holmes stood abruptly and whirled towards his room. “You are most kind, Watson.”

It seemed to be an invitation when Holmes did not close his door but simply stood at the threshold looking back at him. “Shall we?”

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, and he hurried to follow Holmes into his bedroom.

 

`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

  
Holmes did not seem to know what to do with his hands. They would briefly light upon Watson’s forearms then drop to the bed and twist into the blanket. Again they would rise, seemingly without any conscious control from Holmes, and clutch at Watson’s arms. Once Holmes laid a hand against Watson’s face; a brief touch that drew Watson’s eyes to his face. He held Watson’s gaze, his eyes deepened to black, while Watson’s hands kept a steady rhythm – then his breath hitched…  
  
“Holmes,” Watson groaned, wondering why he had spoken at all. Holmes arched up, spilling, trembling–  
  
“God – Watson!”  
  
Holmes arched up and his forehead met Watson’s shoulder. Watson held a hand to the back of his dark head, turned his face into the man’s sleek hair. His left hand cradled Holmes’ cock as Holmes shuddered and gasped for breath. His own arousal was extreme and he felt his hips move slightly in an unconscious attempt to ease the ache in his groin. He closed his eyes tightly, holding himself rigid, and trying not to ruin the moment of closeness with his friend.  
  
It was so much better than their previous encounter; his heart was not heavy with fear for Holmes, and he did not feel the exhausted despair they had both experienced during that awful case. This time he could appreciate all the small details, especially since they had left a lamp burning low on the dresser. Watson could see the small dots of perspiration on Holmes’ neck, the flush of heat in his skin – and when his nose was against the man’s hair he could breath in the scent of his hair oil. It was an overload of information for his senses.  
  
A firm hand gripped him through his nightshirt.  
  
“Ah!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Watson – did I startle you?”  
  
“Eh, yes,” Watson, replied, “What are you doing?” His hips strained to thrust against Holmes’ hand. Beads of perspiration rose up under his moustache, in the hair at his temples.  
  
“Well,” Holmes began, speaking into the collar of Watson’s nightshirt, “Since it appears that you were also finding it hard to sleep tonight, I assumed the same treatment might also ameliorate your own condition.”  
  
Holmes’ breath against his neck was causing Watson to shudder slightly. He could not decide whether the sensation was more or less distracting than the hand cupping his groin. His hips lifted despite his attempts to remain still. He moaned.  
  
“Does it feel pleasant, Watson?” Holmes whispered into his neck.  
  
“God, yes!” he choked out in reply. His hips lifted again and a shudder rolled up his spine. “Holmes, you don’t have to–”  
  
“Hush, Watson. I wish to take care of you just as you have taken care of me. It is something friends should do for each other, is it not?”  
  
For the life of him, Watson could not think of a single reason why he should object.  
  
“I, I… yes, of course,” he said, slumping against Holmes.  
  
“Lay down here, Watson. It is a little awkward to reach you as you sit.”  
  
Holmes moved to make room on his bed for Watson and he laid down where Holmes indicated feeling very exposed as his position revealed the full extent of his arousal.  
  
“Goodness, Watson! I had suspected your dimensions to be on the generous side, but I have actually  _underestimated_  the situation somewhat,” Holmes smirked down at him.  
  
Watson wasn’t sure he liked Holmes in a playful mood when his anatomy was on display. His mind cleared slightly from its fog of lust and he said, “You really don’t have to do this, Holmes. I believe I will sleep well enough now.”  
  
He was halfway to sitting up when Holmes stopped him with a hand on his chest. “No, no, no, Watson! Whatever is the matter? Was my comment in poor taste? I apologise – really I do. I only meant to compliment your natural attributes, my dear fellow.”  
  
Holmes gently pushed Watson back onto the pillow.  
  
“I find it… embarrassing,” Watson murmured. He was further mortified to feel a blush upon his face. He was relieved that his arousal was no longer as impressive as before.  
  
“You should not be embarrassed, but I have always said that you are too modest, Watson,” Holmes said, stretching out beside him and leaning his head on one hand. His other hand traced over Watson’s chest, moving the linen of his nightshirt against his heated skin in a thoroughly distracting manner.  
  
“I am not extraordinarily talented as you are, Holmes. Modesty is surely warranted in a man of my moderate abilities.”  
  
“Not so, Watson! You have many desirable qualities,” Holmes began, patting Watson’s chest for emphasis. “You are dependable, honest, loyal–”  
  
“You make me sound like a dog!”  
  
“Hush! You are intelligent, well-read–”  
  
“Yellow-backed novels?”  
  
“Must you interrupt? You are also very well-proportioned, muscular–”  
  
“With a disfiguring scar…”  
  
“–and you are caring, thoughtful, considerate, beautifully quick-tempered on rare occasions–”  
  
“You  _like_  it when I lose my temper?”  
  
“Yes, I like it because it provides an aesthetic contrast to an otherwise unflappable demeanour. Will you be interrupting any more tonight?”  
  
“I shall endeavour not to, Holmes,” he said smiling.  
  
“I admire your healing abilities, whether they be purely medical, or of a more personal nature. I have benefited from your inability to see another suffer when you feel you can do something to help. You could no more walk away from someone in need than you could voluntarily stop breathing.”  
  
Watson’s smile faded into a slight gape of disbelief. Holmes’ hand had strayed lower during this speech and once again found Watson’s aroused cock through his nightshirt. His hand kept moving though, and met the hem of Watson’s nightshirt, tugging it upwards.  
  
Watson began to tremble. He realised that he should have been able to predict this situation arising, couldn’t understand why it hadn’t occurred to him that Holmes might feel compelled to reciprocate. It made a mockery of Watson’s logical defence of his actions; that he had administered a medical cure for a medical condition. It made it personal.  
  
But they were not homosexual.  
  
Holmes gripped him firmly, creating a rhythm that seemed to call every cell in Watson’s body to attention. The entire act took a ridiculously short amount of time. Watson lay wheezing and swearing, his forearm across his closed eyes as if he could block out what he had just done.  
  
“Your language at climax is rather uncouth. Did you develop the habit while serving in Her Majesty’s Military Forces?”  
  
Watson let out a startled laugh.  
  
“I am sorry, Holmes. This state strips me of my veneer of civilisation; I am nothing but a brute.”  
  
Holmes wiped his hand on a towel from his washstand and gazed down at him with a tilt to his lips. “Nothing but a brute,” he repeated, looking at Watson’s uncovered body with one eyebrow rising.  
  
“Ahem.” Watson tugged his nightshirt back into place and sat up. His head swam slightly and he took a deep breath.  
  
“Are you well, Watson?” Holmes’ hand briefly touched on his shoulder.  
  
“Yes, I… it has been some time since I have indulged myself,” Watson confessed.  
  
“You’ll forgive me asking, but it did seem that you enjoyed the experience?”  
  
“Oh, indeed yes, Holmes! And thank you for…yes, thank you.” If he said any more it would begin to remind him of his previous habit of hiring the services of a discreet professional woman when lustful urges arose. He had the dizzy vision of himself handing over some coins to Holmes before leaving the room.  
  
“I have done no more than you have done for me, Watson. I assure you, it was my pleasure,” Holmes stated evenly, his hand coming to light once more on Watson’s shoulder.  
  
Watson held back a tremor at the contact. The words Holmes had uttered echoed with strange significance in his mind.  
  
“Will you go to bed now?” Holmes asked.  
  
“Yes, I feel quite tired. And do you think you will sleep?”  
  
“Indeed, I’m sure of it. My limbs feel delightfully loosened,” Holmes answered.  
  
Watson was astonished to feel his cock begin to rise again. He stood abruptly, pulling his dressing gown closed around his waist.  
  
“I’ll bid you goodnight then, Holmes. Sleep well,” he said, making his way to the door.  
  
“Good night, Watson. May your dreams be sweet.”  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No nasties in this chapter. This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

Watson had developed a fascination with Holmes’ hands. He’d observed the man many times before – had occasion to comment in his case narratives on Holmes’ long, dexterous fingers, but he’d never before felt such a  _yearning_  – there was no other word to describe it. His mind seemed to stutter to halt when he found Holmes’ hands within his field of vision. When those long, pale digits were slowly manipulating even something as innocent as a microscope Watson found his breathing quickened. It was confounding and he could not ascertain what had brought about his new reaction.  
  
Watson endeavoured to avoid looking at Holmes’ hands until the strange obsession had passed. It was difficult to maintain this objective while eating dinner with the man, however; he glanced everywhere, seeking a distraction from the alluring movements of Holmes’ hands as he wielded knife and fork on his beef medallion. Once Holmes had finished eating Watson thought he might feel more at ease, but the man then held his wine glass with such breathtakingly elegant fingers…  
  
He was staring and unable to do anything about it, and so gave up and gave in.  
  
“Is there a stain?”  
  
Holmes placed his glass on the table and turned his hand over.  
  
“Hm? Oh, no – there is nothing wrong with your hands. Hand, I mean.” Watson answered. It seemed ridiculous now that he should have tried so hard to avoid the topic when he could simply confess his strange fascination to Holmes. It was hardly an insult, after all. “I find your hands quite elegant.”  
  
“Yes, I know. But you were staring, Watson!”  
  
“Yes, sorry. Wait a minute – what do you mean you  _know_?”  
  
Holmes’ lips tilted at one corner. “You write about them, dear boy,” he murmured, eyes twinkling with mischief.  
  
Watson’s mouth fell open. He grabbed for his wine glass and took a swig. Holmes had just called him ‘dear boy’. Had he ever done that before? And – he’d been reading the bloody stories! To add confusion to an already baffling exchange, Watson felt the unmistakable signs of sexual arousal beginning.  _God help me – not now!_  
  
“Have I made you uncomfortable, Watson?” Holmes quizzed, a small frown appearing on his brow.  
  
“Not at all. Well, perhaps a little.”  
  
“Hm. That’s interesting.”  
  
“What?” Watson’s confusion led him to gulp down more wine than was wise in such a short interval.  
  
“Shall we go home now, Watson?”  
  
The abrupt change of topic made him dizzy, or that might have been the excellent wine. However, the chance to escape and seek the cover of his bedroom? They’d only just finished their food, and hadn’t had coffee yet, but–  
  
“By all means. I’m quite done in,” he agreed. Watson finished his glass – it would have been wasteful not to, and never mind that he’d already indulged in three full glasses before this one. Waste was a sin.  
  
Holmes was already gesturing for the account. Watson dabbed his mouth with his serviette, hid a discreet belch behind its cover, and stood unsteadily. “It was a fine meal, Holmes, thank you,” he said.  
  
“It was my pleasure, Watson.”  
  
He’d heard those words recently. He remembered the feeling that he’d missed something important.  
  
Holmes signed the cheque and stood, taking Watson’s arm. “Allow me, dear fellow. You look a touch peaky.”  
  
They negotiated their way around the other tables and the door and finally emerged onto the street. Holmes waved for a cab.  
  
“We could walk, Holmes,” Watson said, “It isn’t that far!”  
  
“We could,” Holmes agreed, “But I find I wish to be home as soon as possible.”  
  
The cab drew to stop in front of them, the horse blowing a steamy breath.  
  
Holmes opened the door for Watson. “Baker Street, please!” he called up to the driver, settling close beside Watson. Watson felt his limbs tremble – perhaps he was ill?  
  
“I wonder whether the beef was tainted?” he wondered aloud. Holmes made an indelicate sound.  
  
“More likely the wine, Watson,” he drawled.  
  
“I did drink rather more than is my habit at dinner,” he admitted.  
  
“I don’t mind, I like to see you relax and enjoy yourself, dear chap – though I do hope you don’t suffer any ill effects from your indulgence.”  
  
Watson closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Holmes’ thigh against his own. “Hm, I don’t feel so bad, I think,” he murmured.  
  
He dozed until the cab halted outside their door. Holmes alighted and paid the driver, then helped Watson down the step.  
  
“I’m alright, Holmes!” Watson shrugged off his hand with a smile. “Not quite three sheets to the wind yet.”  
  
Holmes laughed and unlocked the front door. Mrs Hudson bustled up from the kitchen.  
  
“You’re home earlier than I was expecting, gentlemen!” she said, helping them with their coats.  
  
“Don’t fuss, Mrs Hudson,” Holmes complained, “We simply wanted a quiet evening at home. If you please?” He stalked past.  
  
“Holmes,” Watson, interceded, “Don’t be so ungracious to our poor, dear, suffering landlady!”  
  
This earned him a rolled eye from Holmes and a sly smile from Mrs Hudson. She took his hat for brushing and they continued up the stairs unimpeded.  
  
Holmes went straight to the whiskey decanter when they entered the sitting room. “Watson?” he asked waving a shot glass in his direction.  
  
“I think not, Holmes,” he sighed, sitting down and tipping his head back against the chair cushion. He felt his legs sprawl, his hands lying limp as if his bones had dissolved.  
  
Holmes glanced at him and made an amused sound. “Yes, I don’t think a  _wee dram_  could possibly add anything useful to an already overfilled vessel.”  
  
“Oh, I’m not that bad. Do you hear me slurring? I’ve been far more inna…a-ebriated than this, I can assure you!” Watson objected, his eyes closed, enjoying the slow spin of the room.  
  
Holmes laughed softly. Watson felt the air stir as Holmes walked to his chair and sat down opposite. “You look well now, John.”  
  
Watson’s eyes flew open in shock. He stared at Holmes. “You called me  _John_!”  
  
“Many people call you ‘John’, do you object to it?”  
  
“You never do! Why did you do so just now?”  
  
Holmes shrugged. He seemed to be uncomfortable. Watson saw a faint blush rise on his otherwise pale countenance. “I suppose I was trying to enjoy a closer form of friendship with you,” he finally uttered, “I seem to have erred.”  
  
Watson felt chagrined. “Holmes, you are already my dearest friend, why would you think otherwise?”  
  
“I feel that there has been a distance between us. I feel as if you have been avoiding me in some way these past several days.”  
  
“Holmes!” Watson leant forward in his chair. “Not a bit of it, dear chap!”  
  
“I see. Perhaps I have interpreted your behaviour incorrectly. There is something else that I have made up my mind to tell you,” Holmes said, suddenly shooting up out of his chair. He gulped the remaining whiskey and took the few steps to the dining table, leaning on it as he set down the glass. “Will you permit me to try something, Watson?”  
  
Watson huffed a short laugh. “If it does not involve shooting holes in the wall, stinking up the room with pipe fumes until one cannot breathe, or blowing the roof off the building with a chemical experiment – then I think I can permit you almost anything, Holmes.”  
  
The man turned to look at him. His slight smile did not seem to reach his eyes, Watson noticed; he looked nothing more or less than watchful. And determined.  
  
Holmes walked over to stand directly in front of Watson’s chair. He had to crane his neck up to look at him. Watson raised his eyebrows in question.  
  
“Almost anything. You will permit this, I hope.” So saying, Holmes bent and kissed Watson on the mouth.  
  
It was a light, tentative kiss – a gentle press of his lips against Watson’s, then he leant back slightly, his eyes almost crossing as he studied Watson’s face. Watson imagined he must look as if he’d been hit with a brick. He couldn’t think, didn’t know what to say. Whether he should say anything. His mouth fell open and he licked his dry lips quite unconsciously.  
  
Holmes moaned and leant forward to kiss him again, and this time Watson felt a tongue move inside his mouth and any half-formed thoughts evaporated with the heat that rose up inside him with a roar.  
  
He fell against the back of his chair, legs asprawl. Holmes followed him backwards, holding Watson’s head between his elegant hands, long fingers burrowing into his hair. Watson felt Holmes’ knee lodge on the seat at the juncture of his thighs. Holmes tilted his face and met Watson’s mouth again and again. Watson could do nothing to prevent his arousal building, building… Finally, he reached up to grip Holmes’ hands and pull them down. Holmes kept kissing him, bracing his hands on the arms of Watson’s chair. Watson turned his head, and his vision swam in and out of focus as Holmes simply began kissing his jaw and neck, working a path to his ear and sucking obscenely on his ear lobe.  
  
“Damn. Fuck.”  
  
He felt Holmes chuckle, his breath washing against his throat. Watson trembled with a frightening desire.  
  
“I had thought that you would be further along when you began swearing, John,” he whispered in between quick licks to Watson’s ear.  
  
Watson felt he might shake apart. Holmes  _knew_  him. He knew what Watson looked like when he reached orgasm; what he sounded like when aroused beyond the point of return. He more than likely knew how much semen he expended in the act!  
  
“No. No, no!” He pushed and, caught off balance, Holmes fell backwards and landed in a flurry of long limbs on the floor.  
  
Watson stood unsteadily. He looked down at Holmes, feeling equally as angry as he felt sorry. Holmes’ face was blank with shock.  
  
“I’m sorry. We are friends.” He swallowed noisily, wiping a hand across his mouth, their combined saliva now on his fingers. He coughed and tried again to speak. Holmes drew his knees up and leaned his elbows on them. His eyes had dropped to study the rug.  
  
“You are my dear friend. I would not hurt you for the world, Holmes. But… we are not perverts, and we should not continue this. I was, I… helped you when you were heartsick and in physical pain, but I–”  
  
“I helped you too, Watson.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, you did,” he agreed, nodding. That must have been the mistake. “I think that I should not have let you.”  
  
Holmes stood up and looked at him steadily. “Are you saying that only you should be permitted to bring me pleasure – that you must never be on the receiving end of this equation?”  
  
Watson reached up and gripped his hair; it was so confusing!  
  
“I’m saying that… there is no equation! We are friends, nothing more, nothing less than that. What I did all those months ago – I did that because I did not want to lose you to drug addiction! I did it because the only alternative you gave me was to beat you!”  
  
Watson dropped back into his chair, leaning his head on his hands. “God, why did I start this?”  
  
Holmes sat down in the chair opposite. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, his brow furrowed. “It gave us both pleasure then. Tonight, if I’m not mistaken, we both felt pleasure from kissing.”  
  
“That… is entirely the problem. We are not lovers! If we were then we would risk exposure and ruin, or a long gaol sentence. It is improper and immoral!” Watson expelled an angry breath. Holmes knew the law better than most, why was he behaving like an ignorant child?  
  
“Propriety has never interested me, and moralities come and go according to fashion. The only constant I have ever counted on is you, John Watson. That is, until now.”  
  
Watson watched with a sense of irretrievable loss as Holmes rose and entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him and shutting out the one person he had always trusted with his life.  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

  
Watson awoke to a headache and a taste in his mouth that put him in mind of socks he’d worn for weeks at a time while serving as an army surgeon. Beyond the physical discomforts, his heart felt inexplicably heavy – as if someone dear to him had died. Watson sighed, his head hung loosely between his shoulders, chin meeting his chest.  
  
“I do not want to meet this day,” he murmured.  
  
*  
  
At the table Watson attempted his herring, bit the edges of his toast, and gulped desperately at his coffee. Finally, he spoke to an equally silent Holmes.  
  
“Holmes, I am sorry. About… last night.”  
  
“Think no more on it, Watson. I assure you I do not intend to,” Holmes said from behind his newspaper. Smoke from Holmes’ morning cigarette drifted up over its edge.  
  
“Perhaps we should discuss the subject, old man. Perhaps… I did not express myself in the most comprehensible fashion last night.”  
  
Holmes folded his paper with a snap and looked Watson in the eye. His gaze was profoundly cool and Watson barely stopped a shiver in reaction.  
  
“I believe you made your position absolutely plain – there was no room for any misunderstanding on my part whatsoever. Unless you have experienced a miraculous change of heart in the interim I can see no reason for us to reopen the topic.”  
  
Watson swallowed convulsively. “Yes, but–”  
  
“I consider the subject closed. Permanently. I’ll thank you not to speak on it ever again.” Holmes slapped the paper down next to his untouched plate and rose. “I have work to do. I don’t know when I will see you next. Good day, Watson.”  
  
Watson stared in mute shock as Holmes stalked to his bedroom, retrieved his coat and brushed past Watson on his way towards the door. He heard the sharp sound of it closing upon Holmes’ exit. The quiet left in Holmes’ wake deafened him.  
  
*  
  
Over the next four days Watson seldom saw Holmes. He was engaged in a case with Scotland Yard and did not talk on the matter. On one morning Watson asked whether he would like his assistance and Holmes paused in his progress to the sitting room door. He turned and regarded Watson with that cool grey stare. It was an expression that Watson knew he had brought to Holmes’ face.  
  
“I shan’t be needing you, Watson – not on this case.”  
  
 _Nor any other, I expect,_  he thought miserably to himself as Holmes departed, shutting the door firmly.  
  
Watson once more sat in silent sitting room. The soft ticking of the clock seemed to signify all the lost seconds he had cost himself with Holmes. There was nothing more important to Watson than his friendship with Sherlock Holmes.  _It is no wonder_ , he thought,  _that I feel as if I have lost a limb – a part of me is missing._  That place in his chest, inhabited by Holmes, was empty of his presence.  
  
For the first time he began to consider that he might leave Baker Street; leave Holmes and somehow fashion a life without him. He was shocked to find tears gathering in his eyes at the notion.  
  
This was followed by a revelation:  _I cannot do it. I cannot live without him._  He pondered on the meaning of this for a long time.  
  
*  
  
It was two days later that Watson was interrupted during his tea by Inspector Lestrade.  
  
“You see, he should have met me no later than midday, Doctor. Granted, he may have been delayed by an hour or two, but any longer than that and he would certainly have sent word.”  
  
“I see,” Watson responded faintly. A chill hand was clutching at his heart. He had not seen Holmes return last night, had not heard the street door later as he’d lain in bed.  
  
“So, if you tell me his last known destination perhaps we could track him from there and discover his whereabouts. I do not wish to alarm you, but these men are as ruthless as any I have seen, and, being foreigners, have no idea who Sherlock Holmes is. An English thug might hesitate to do him harm, but these villains–”  
  
“I understand,” Watson said quickly, “The trouble is, Inspector, I don’t have any information that will help you,” he confessed, rising from his chair to stand at the window.  _Where are you, Holmes? For God’s sake, please do not be harmed!_  
  
“I don’t even know what case he was working on,” he said, turning away from the busy scene below to regard Lestrade’s disbelieving stare. “Holmes and I have had… a disagreement… recently.”  
  
“A disagreement? But he’s been working with me for nigh on a week, Doctor!”  
  
“Yes, I know that much.”  
  
Lestrade coughed. “I’m sure he had good reason not to…. Damn! No, he didn’t! He should have involved you, Doctor. It was sheer stupidity not to have made you aware of his movements in the event of this very circumstance arising!”  
  
Watson felt his mouth quirk in a reflexive smile that did not penetrate the fog of his disquiet. “You are correct and I concur. Now, we must attempt to find him regardless. Tell me all you know about the case and I will get a street map.”  
  
*  
  
The case involved the smuggling of young women – hardly older than girls – into London to work in the Disreputable Trade. In practice, the criminal ring had made these females sexual slaves, for they were not paid enough to live free of their masters, illegal immigrants or not. Lestrade and his men had encountered an escapee some weeks earlier and as the woman had managed to acquire rudimentary English during her servitude, had heard details of the ring’s operations which had up until then only been rumour.  
  
“Holmes would have hated this horrid scheme,” Watson muttered as he pored over the map on the table, tracking the places Lestrade had mentioned.  
  
“Indeed, he did, sir. He was single-minded in his efforts for us, and I believe he was about to find the ringleader’s hide out and lead us to him.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Johnston was working with him and we haven’t heard from him either.”  
  
“Where was he placed?”  
  
“Holmes had him stationed here,” his finger pointed, “in the mornings, and here,” his finger moved to a street close by the docks, “in the afternoons. ”  
  
“And you’ve looked all around that district?”  
  
“We have, yes. Though I kept the uniforms out of the area and only used three men so as not to spook any that may be watching for us.”  
  
“When was the last time you heard from Johnston?”  
  
“He met Walsh in the public house – here,” Lestrade’s finger pressed on Cox Lane, “at about five o’clock yesterday. He handed over this note to be delivered to me.”  
  
Lestrade gave Watson the slip of paper, soiled and creased after passing through many hands.  
  
 _My dear L,  
I am very close. Man we seek is visible to me now and I will have his address for you by tomorrow morning latest. I am more than happy to see that the end is in sight on this one.  
Yours, H_  
  
Watson blinked rapidly. He could hear Holmes’ clipped tone, the suppressed excitement in his voice as he anticipated the success of his work. He put the paper down next to the map. He picked up a pencil and began to circle an area around the docks. He looked up at Lestrade.  
  
“We have a deal of ground to cover, and we must be discreet.”  
  
Lestrade nodded and bent over the map. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Doctor.”  
  
*  
  
It had been two days and it was taking too bloody long! Watson scrubbed a hand over his gritty eyes and gulped down some tepid tea. The pub he was seated in was close to deserted, the business having not long opened for the day. He had stayed in a room upstairs overnight – an experience he would never wish to repeat – to be close to the area they were investigating.  
  
He was struggling to focus. In his mind a countdown had begun as soon as Lestrade had told him Holmes was missing. He had no reason to suppose that Holmes was being imprisoned without food or water, but that was the nature of his anxiety.  
  
 _It’s been three days. Three days._  Watson felt panic circling around his mind as a shark scenting blood in the water. Holmes had not eaten well in the days before he had disappeared.  
  
“Doctor!”  
  
Watson focused his eyes rapidly on the figure rushing towards him. Lestrade’s face bore signs of fatigue but his gaze was full of intense purpose. “We’ve found Johnston – he’s dead.”  
  
“Good God,” Watson whispered, stomach lurching. He would give thanks for having not eaten breakfast later, he thought. “Where is he?”  
  
“I had two men take him back to the morgue. His throat was cut.”  
  
“Why did you move him?” Watson was outraged. Had Lestrade learned nothing after working with Holmes for so long? He struggled to rein in a temper that had already frayed from the constant frustration and fear caused by Holmes’ continued absence.  
  
“Calm yourself, Doctor,” Lestrade said in a patient tone. “We have extensive notes and I’ve a diagram here.” He pressed his notebook open on the table.  
  
Watson slid the book over to study it. The body had been wedged behind… “Are these packing crates? Where is this?”  
  
“It’s a lane beside the docks, about four or five streets from here. I would hazard that the poor beggar’s been dead for two days. Not too much smell on him as yet, but the rats have had a nibble. I reckon he was followed to his meeting with Walsh and done in afterwards.”  
  
Lestrade’s matter-of-fact voice did not betray the sorrow that Watson knew the man must be feeling. He was glad of it. He knew he should feel some compassion for the constable who had lost his life performing his duties, but all he could feel was the jittery excitement that they were  _close_ , tantalisingly so, to Holmes.  
  
And Holmes was not dead; had not been dumped in a nameless lane way. Watson clenched his fist and stood, his fatigue forgotten. His mind whirred and his skin tingled.  
  
“We are closing in on them – Holmes and the ring leader. I know it!” he hissed at Lestrade.  
  
“I’ll get some lads down here now,” he responded with a nod. “Johnston, poor devil, has pointed us right.”  
  
That brought Watson up short and he paused on his way to get his coat. “He has indeed, Inspector, and we will see his murderer hanged for it.”  
  
“Just so, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade agreed resolutely. He pocketed his notebook and gestured at one of his constables who had been lingering by the door. “Indeed, we shall,” he added quietly as he walked over to issue instructions.  
  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

**7.01**  
  
There was nothing subtle about their approach this time. Watson was relieved; if his fears about Holmes were warranted, if the man  _had_  been deprived of water, then any further delay and his internal organs might begin to fail. The only factor in their favour right now was the cold weather, which would somewhat inhibit rapid dehydration.  _But what if he had been chained near a furnace?_  his frantic mind supplied. Gritting his teeth, he ordered his thoughts.  _One step at a time – first find the bloody man, wring his neck, **then**  worry about his condition._  
  
There were six officers crowded around the table looking at the street map as Lestrade gave them instructions on the search. Any suspicious buildings were to be forcibly entered. Various tools and jemmies were handed out. Watson was impressed with Lestrades’ organisation, but equally impatient to leave and begin the search. He suddenly realised that he could; he wasn’t under Lestrade’s command.  
  
“I’m off, Inspector,” he murmured, touching the man’s elbow. Lestrade looked startled for a moment, then quickly came to the same conclusion that Watson had.  
  
“Clarke,” A young constable raised his eyes from the map. “You’re with the Doctor. Don’t hash it up, there’s a lad.”  
  
“Yessir!”  
  
Watson sighed. He didn’t really want the man’s company, but he supposed it was a sensible precaution. He could always use the young man as a runner if he needed to communicate with Lestrade.  
  
“We’ll meet back here at midday, Doctor. If I need to reach you sooner, for any reason, I’ll send Brown to look for you in your search area.”  
  
Watson nodded briefly. His mind had seized on the phrase ‘for any reason’– had shaped the words into an evil portent. He turned away from Lestrade, led the way outside, the map imprinted on his memory after two days of scouring the streets. “This way,” he said to the fresh-faced constable.  
  
As they walked briskly, with the chill morning air slicing through their clothing, Watson worried at his decision not to bring his medical bag. It would have slowed him down, and he’d always relied on his ability to improvise in a crisis. Still, he fretted that Holmes might need some item, some drug that he would have left behind at the pub. He clenched his fists and forcibly stopped thinking about theoretical disasters; the real ones were keeping him occupied enough.  
  
 _Holmes, I would rather you were home and using your syringe than leading me on this ghastly hide and seek!_  
  
*  
  
Midday had come and gone with no result. Lestrade had managed to arrest a handful of sailors and merchants engaged in the illegal smuggling of spirits, but none involved in the trafficking business that they were certain had to be responsible for Holmes’ disappearance. It was dusk and Lestrade had dismissed his men for the day. Watson had argued that they should persist, that Holmes had to be out there somewhere, to which Lestrade had retorted that men must eat and rest or they would be worse than useless when they continued the search on the morrow. It was the sort of ruthless logic that Holmes would have employed – and it was galling that Lestrade should use it now to defeat Watson’s argument.  
  
Watson knew the man was right, however; he could not rest, would not rest. (In the back of his mind he wondered if Lestrade had expectations of recovering Holmes’ corpse rather than his still-breathing body.) After agreeing to the Inspector’s insistent request he stay in his room at the less-than-salubrious public house until morning, Watson continued the search alone. He felt no guilt about breaking his promise; Lestrade should have known better than to coerce him into making it.  
  
The chill of the evening bit at his wrists and face – the only skin left exposed after donning his overcoat and gloves. He finally halted at a set of gates that had been padlocked shut for the night. Watson studied the building idly. It was one he had passed perhaps three times during the search, and it had been dismissed as a possible bolthole and a place of imprisonment. It was a strangely well-to-do business premises and it looked out of place amidst the rather less prosperous buildings around it. Watson had thought it was a sign of the area’s increasing economic success and gaining with it some degree of respectability. Now he began to wonder whether it might indicate something quite different. Whilst he had been walking it had grown fully dark and the building was some distance from the nearest streetlight. The brick walls were shrouded in shadows and no light glowed around the edges of the window shutters. It looked completely deserted, yet something tickled at the back of Watson’s mind – some feature that did not sit properly in the picture before him.  
  
Obeying the sense of unease that caused the hairs to rise at the back of his neck, he eased back into a darkened doorway across the road from the building and considered the scene before him. He watched a grey cat slinking from shadow to shadow along the brick fence that bordered the building. He could not see what the cat saw, and stalked with such intensity – whatever it was, it was smaller than a rat. Watson let his mind drift while the cat patiently closed in on its prey. There was a flurry of movement and the cat trotted across the street in front of Watson with a small, frantic mouse wriggling between its teeth.  
  
 _Poor pickings this evening, my friend._  
  
Then it struck him. There was no light showing around the windows. There really should be lights lit inside; it was only five o’clock and any business this size would have staff still working, even if just the cleaners tidying up the premises for the next day. And any business involved in the importing and exporting goods – as this one claimed to be, from the inscription on the brass plaque affixed to the left side of the tall gates – would be even more likely to have extended hours of operation, taking deliveries and sending merchandise out for transportation.  
  
 _This is it! I’m sure of it!_  
  
Watson leant against the cold brickwork at his back, striving to steady his heart’s uneven beat. A cold sweat slicked his forehead.  _Steady, old man; you’re no good to him like this._  He studied the gate and fence with renewed purpose. Would it be easier to scale the fence, or to attempt to pick the lock on the gates? Locks were Holmes’ specialty, and he was not carrying the pick set in any case. It was to be the fence, then, and he would worry about how to get Holmes out later. His heart gave another judder at the thought of finding the man at last. He clamped his emotions down ruthlessly, knowing that worry and fatigue were working to erode his control. He smiled slightly at a stray thought:  _What would Holmes do?_  
  
Well, he certainly wouldn’t be standing around wondering what Watson would do! He almost laughed aloud at the idea as he stared at part of the fence that seemed most deeply in shadow. It appeared to be the best place to attempt a climb over the top. The brickwork had a helpful recess built into it that would help him to reach the top and hoist himself up, from there – if he dangled by his fingers over the other side – it would be easy enough to drop down inside the perimeter. He had no idea how visible he would be to anyone inside the fence, but they had no better light than he did to see by, and likely less as the fence blocked what little illumination came from the distant street lamp. Watson felt for the candle stub and matches in his overcoat pocket and, reassured by their presence, crept across the road and made his way swiftly up to the top of the fence. He paused and sat astride the brickwork, feeling far too exposed to scrutiny, but waiting out of necessity for his eyes to adjust to the deep gloom of the forecourt below. When he could wait no longer he lowered himself slowly until he dangled at full stretch, the scar tissue he carried at his shoulder burning with the effort, then – he dropped. He didn’t quite know what his feet would encounter – even his dark-adjusted eyes could not discern the ground at that point – but he was fortunate and his feet struck solid flags. He stumbled, but it was dizziness caused by the sheer blinding blackness surrounding him rather than any obstacle in his path.  
  
Watson crouched and waited, half expecting to encounter a gang of thugs. Minutes passed and all remained quiet. In an agony of tension he risked lighting a match to examine the inside of the brick fence for any handholds that might help him climb back out. He would not be as lucky this time; the bricks had no convenient crevasses on the inside face. Watson worried at his lip – he should have begged Lestrade for the loan of that young constable, what was his name?  
  
“Doctor?”  
  
He almost jumped. He waited, wondering if he’d imagined the hoarse whisper. For a moment he wondered if it was Holmes, rendered invisible by some ingenious disguise.  
  
“Doctor Watson?”  
  
It wasn’t Holmes, but it was no enemy either. “Who are you?” he whispered after a second.  
  
“Clarke, sir.”  
  
“Clarke?” Wasn’t that the constable that had tagged around with him all day? “Where are you?”  
  
“Near the gate, sir,”  
  
Bloody hell, that was all he needed to attract unwanted attention from anyone guarding the property. Watson thought furiously. Clarke could be a definite asset, but he had to move him quickly. He put a hand out and followed the wall until he could see the gates and the thin stream of light that shone through the wrought iron bars.  
  
“Clarke, walk to your left until you are in the shadow of the corner column, then climb over the fence. For God’s sake, do it quietly.”  
  
“Yessir,” the constable whispered back. Watson could just make out his footsteps as he retraced his own back to his original position. In very short order, Clarke’s head appeared at the top of the fence and Watson watched as he scrambled over and landed next to him with a pleasing minimum of sound.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he hissed in a whisper at the young man.  
  
“I was following you, sir,” Clarke breathed back, still catching his breath.  
  
“Following…”  
  
“Inspector’s orders, sir,” Clarke added.  
  
“Bloody–” Watson struggled – he did not bite his tongue, but the inside of his right cheek bore the impression of his teeth. He took a deep breath before asking, “Did the Inspector ask you to do anything else, Clarke?”  
  
“Said I was to fetch him if you found Mister ‘Olmes, sir.”  
  
Watson mauled his other cheek in frustration. He felt himself nodding, though Clarke would not likely see the movement. “Right,” he whispered, “Right. You weren’t supposed to reveal yourself to me, were you, Clarke?”  
  
“Er,”  
  
“Never mind,” Watson hissed, “You’re here now and I intend to make use of you. Do you have a pair of derbies?”  
  
“Yessir.”  
  
“Still have the jemmy from this morning?”  
  
“Yessir.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Skeleton?”  
  
Watson felt a large irregular shaped key being pressed against his hand. He closed a fist around it marvelling at Fate’s odd sense of humour. They now had some hope of a swift and undetected escape. “Good work,” he whispered to the young man.  
  
“Sir? You think Mister ‘Olmes is in ‘ere?”  
  
“I’m sure of it, Clarke. But I don’t know who else might be on the premises. It looks deserted, but looks can be deceiving.”  
  
“Should I fetch the Inspector, sir?”  
  
Watson had considered this. “No. We have not found Mister Holmes yet, and a large number of police trooping in the gate might spook someone into moving him. There may be another way out, in fact; I would place a wager on there being more than one concealed entrance to this building.”  
  
“Very well, sir.”  
  
The constable did not sound completely convinced, but he would abide by Watson’s decision. Good. He didn’t have time to argue. “We need to get inside, but not by the main door – it may be rigged with an alarm of some kind.”  
  
“A window, sir?”  
  
“That would be my preference, but not on the ground level, we must assume they have those alarmed as well.”  
  
They stood for a moment studying what they could see of the façade in the dim light. At the same second Watson saw it, Clarke said, “That branch is fair close to that ledge on the first floor corner window, sir.”  
  
“Yes-s-s.” Watson squinted at it, measuring distances. He wasn’t sure he could manage to hang on to the branch and work the window open without slipping. His shoulder still throbbed distantly from the climb over the fence.  
  
As if reading his mind, Clarke whispered, “Let me do it, sir. Me mum says I’m like a monkey, I am.”  
  
Watson smiled at Clarke’s dark silhouette. “I’m sure you are. Up you go then. If the window is stuck fast, come straight back down – do not be tempted to break it,” he cautioned the constable.  
  
“Yessir,” Clarke whispered happily, and Watson watched as his shadowed form slipped away and scrambled up the cherry tree, looking every bit like a large monkey.  
  
......cont'd

 

 

 **7.02**  
  
Watson waited, hardly breathing, as Clarke braced himself against the windowsill and worked the jemmy under the window frame. Some endless seconds later, Watson could make out some more movement and Clarke wriggled into a small opening he’d managed to make, one leg still visible dangling over the sill. He was still for a moment and Watson was conscious of his own heartbeat as he waited below – then he could see Clarke turn, silently beckoning him to follow before dropping out of sight into the darkness beyond.  
  
Watson broke out of his paralysis and made haste to follow the young policeman’s path up the tree, gritting his teeth against a pained moan – climbing trees was not an activity his war wound easily tolerated. He braced his hand against the windowsill and, with a wave of vertigo, swung out from the sturdy branch and slipped through the opening. He was startled, and almost yelped, upon feeling a pair of hands grip him and steady his descent to the floor.  
  
“Careful, sir,” Clarke whispered. “I almost tripped over that chair, it being so dark in here.”  
  
“Thank you,” Watson whispered in return. The young man was proving to be a valuable addition so far and Watson’s estimation of the policeman’s character had undergone a drastic revision. “Where is the door?” he asked, striving to make sense out of the looming shapes around them.  
  
“Shall we light a match, sir?”  
  
“I prefer not to so near the window, and once we do we shall lose what night vision we have thus far accumulated,” Watson responded. “I think the door is over there,” he said, grasping Clarke’s solid shoulder and pointing.  
  
“Ah, I see it.”  
  
They proceeded, with Watson keeping his hand in place on Clarke’s shoulder, and found the door opened easily enough. “Mr Holmes will not be on this floor, as I suspect they would be holding him on the lower level, perhaps a cellar,” Watson whispered as he found himself entering a darkened, and conveniently deserted, hallway. “We must find the stairs and from there discover an entrance to any lower levels,” he added.  
  
“Do you see that light, Doctor?”  
  
“Yes, I do, Clarke. That must be at the bottom of the staircase.”  
  
Watson stepped forward first, moving as fast as he could without making undue noise. He was grateful for Clarke’s stealthy tread behind him. He began to suspect the policeman of a less than law-abiding childhood spent creeping around the local pubs’ sleeping drunkards and making off with small change.  
  
The staircase was dimly lit by a lone gas lamp, and Watson led the way cautiously down, senses at full alert. Thanks, in part, to an unimaginative builder, the cellar door was not difficult to find. It was large and, predictably, locked. Watson paused to catch his breath and whisper to Clarke as he leant close, “I believe it is time to employ that key of yours.”  
  
He pulled the matches and candle stub from his pocket, resigned to the necessity of using them – the light from the stairs was well behind them.  
  
The door opened after endless minutes of jiggering with the skeleton key. Clarke let out a long breath of relief and, glancing at Watson, stepped back to allow him to precede him down the narrow staircase. Watson was glad of the constable’s deference – it made the venture easier not to have an argument about who was in charge, or who was to leap first without looking. He waited until his feet had reached the last step before lighting the candle; it was impossible to navigate without it.  
  
Watson squinted and blinked at the sudden small brightness of the candle’s flame. There was a corridor at the end of the staircase and it stretched forward further than a single candle could illuminate. Assuredly it was not an ordinary cellar; there were at least four doors on either side of the corridor. The air was cold but not as dank as Watson would have expected in a locked cellar deep underground.  
  
 _There is fresh air circulating in here_ , he thought.  
  
“Clarke, he’s here. We will have to look in all these rooms, I suspect.”  
  
“We will do what we must, Doctor,” the constable replied with no hesitation. Watson sensed the man was brushing a hand over his truncheon as he spoke.  
  
“Very good, then. Let us ascertain whether we must use your key on all these doors,” Watson said, moving towards the nearest door.  
  
The first door proved to be unlocked and yielded nothing more than foodstuffs; flour, tea, sugar and salt chief among them. They also knew that the barrels along one wall must be salted beef from the odour of the room, and the scuttling of rats as Watson lifted the candle to peer into the corners.  
  
The second door they approached was locked and they spent tense minutes in front of it as Clarke angled the skeleton key just so until the tumblers fell into place allowing them to enter.  
  
The first thing Watson noticed was the smell. He well knew the smell of unwashed bodies and… fear. Fear and despair. Watson held the candle above his head, casting the feeble glow into the room. Faces stared back at him, blinking eyes in the sudden light. A low moan of dread came from one of the people – were they women? They must be, he thought. These were the smuggled women who were being pressed into prostitution against their will. Watson felt his gorge rise at the sight. The brutality of it made his senses swim. He had no time to tend to the poor wretches – he had to keep looking – Holmes was here somewhere!  
  
He heard Clarke gasp beside him as he took in the state of the prisoners they had discovered.  
  
“There are five women here. You must escort them out of here, Clarke. Give me the key and I will test the remaining doors close by. I will give it back to you for you will need it to open the lock on the front gates.”  
  
“Ye-es,” Clarke whispered, his voice hushed with shock. He handed over the key and took a deep breath. He coughed briefly and repeated, “Yes, Doctor. I’ll see if I can get them up quietly, though I have no notion what manner of language they’ll be speaking,” he ended doubtfully.  
  
“I’m sure they will soon understand that we are rescuing them from their captors, but it is imperative that they make no noise, do you understand? Make that very plain to them.”  
  
Clarke straightened and nodded quickly. “Yessir, I will take them all out, then I’ll go straight to the Inspector. He’ll be back to assist you directly.”  
  
Watson was no longer listening, he’d taken the key and moved to the next door. Not locked; full of old packing cases, buckets, ladders, coils of rope… nothing of Holmes. The door next to that: unlocked, bare apart from traces of hay and puddles of water, a canvas sheet covering what appeared to be an enormous mirror. Watson’s heart sank as he circled the room and went back to the open door. There was only one more room to check across the corridor. He fumbled with the key, convinced that this would be the one.  
  
The door was unlocked, just like all the others. Watson thought he might collapse. “He has to be here–” he muttered under his breath. He heard the light footsteps of the women as Clarke ushered them from their prison. He tried to feel some elation that he had discovered the traffickers’ headquarters, had released these poor souls from such a diabolical fate.  
  
He felt despair. He placed the key in Clarke’s hand. “Can you manage without the candle do you think?” he asked.  
  
“Certainly, sir. No sign of Mister ‘Olmes?” the young man asked with a furrowed brow.  
  
“The doors are all unlocked, just as you see.” Watson let loose a hiss of frustration. “I feel that he is here – I must stay, Clarke. I must continue the search, and I will need what light this candle can give me. I dare not risk a lantern.”  
  
“Very well, sir. I daresay the ladies have been used to the dark, poor things, and upstairs will be easier,” the constable assured him, with a nod. “Good luck, Doctor. The Inspector will be here as soon as I can get him here.”  
  
“Thank you, Clarke. I could not have done this much without you,” Watson said, gripping the young man’s shoulder briefly.  
  
Clarke moved in front of the women and whispered encouragement to them, pointing towards the staircase at the end of the corridor. Watson turned and regarded the rest of the corridor. He walked swiftly towards what appeared to be a solid wall at the end. Perhaps there was a hidden doorway there? He waved the candle slowly in front of the bricks, looking for a tell tale flutter in the flame should a current of air hit it.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He almost dashed the candle against the wall in frustration, staying his hand at the last second.  
  
It was a small sound; if Watson’s senses had not been extended to compensate for the darkness that surrounded him, he would not have heard it. He almost ventured an inquiry of ‘Holmes?’ before his caution stopped the impulse – for it might not be Holmes, but one of the gang members lying in wait for intruders. As quietly as he could Watson inched toward the sound; it was the slightest disturbance in the air, a whisper of breath… and it grew slightly clearer as he advanced towards the door he had left open, with the room beyond empty save for an old mirror. The mirror that had been draped with canvas, and the canvas that now appeared to move slightly as Watson stood and gazed at it.  
  
“Bloody–” he began in a whisper, then forgot to finish his curse as he dragged at the canvas with one hand, doing his best not to accidentally put the flame out as the candle guttered and dripped hot wax on his hand. He’d taken his gloves off to climb through the upstairs window an age ago, but he didn’t feel the sting as he worked to uncover the mirror.  
  
It was not a mirror, it was a frame. An empty frame that stood in front of a door. Watson tried the handle, turning it slowly, hoping it did not squeak.  
  
He paused to gaze inside the room. It was lit by a single oil lamp placed upon the top of a large shelf that ran around the perimeter of the room. Squarely in the middle of the room was something which Watson could not make sense of. It was apparent now why the room had not been more difficult to enter; Holmes had been so thoroughly trussed that his assailants had seen no need for locks.  
  
“Sweet Christ,” Watson whispered and he hurried to the figure hanging by his arms from a wooden ceiling joist.  
  
“My, God! Holmes!” Watson struggled to keep his voice low, still fearing that any noise would bring gang members down on top of them. “What have they done to you?” he whispered in the dim light.  
  
He could see Holmes’ sunken eyelids flutter, then two slivers of pupil were visible. A small quirk of parched lips and suddenly Watson felt a surge of relief. “We must get you out of here, old man.” He cast about for something to use on the shackles that bound Holmes to the beam overhead.  
  
He cursed the fact that he had returned the skeleton key to Clarke, frantically wondering what else could be used to unlock them.  
  
“Lift,” Holmes was croaking at him, his throat muscles straining with effort.  
  
“What is it, my dear? What did you say?”  
  
“Lift me–”  
  
“Yes, I will, Holmes, but… I must undo the shackles to get you down,” he tried to explain, unsure what state Holmes was in mentally.  
  
“Damn it!” If the man had had the strength it would have been a shout. “Lift me, John!”  
  
“I will, Holmes. All right.” Watson blew out the candle and gathered Holmes’ slim form around the hips, lifting him without much effort. “Is that enough, Holmes?” he asked, wondering at the man’s insistence. He heard metal jangling above and strained his neck to see what Holmes was doing.  
  
 _Of course! I am indeed an idiot, and he may say so for the rest of our lives._  
  
It was evident that Holmes had lost weight while imprisoned and he was now attempting to pull a hand free of its shackle. Watson winced in sympathy at Holmes’ grunts of effort, knowing the pain he must be experiencing.  
  
“Ah, ah, ah!” Holmes gave a raspy shout and he all but fell into Watson’s arms, the chain with its empty shackle swinging to the floor. Watson eased him down to the floor. He cradled Holmes’ head in one hand.  
  
“Holmes?”  
  
The man’s face was a sickly grey covered with a sheen of sweat.  
  
“Holmes, can you hear me?”  
  
“Water.”  
  
“I will look for some. I will come right back, Holmes,” Watson said in a rush, climbing to his feet and picking up the candle once more. He used the lantern to light the wick and shielded the flame as he hurried from the room. He thought that there must be some water in the fetid room that the women had been held captive in, for the scoundrels had wanted them kept alive after all.  
  
Watson kept his ears and eyes open for anyone who might have noticed their presence and be taking steps to apprehend them. He fingered the revolver in his coat pocket as he peered into the women’s room. Very little remained of the unfortunate females, apart from some broken shoes and threadbare shawls. He found a covered pitcher half full of water in one corner and almost shouted with joy. He hurried to deliver it.  
  
“Holmes, wake up!” Watson knelt on the floor beside Holmes. He slid his arm under the man’s head and shoulders, gently lifting him to drink from the pitcher. Holmes dribbled all the water over his chest, unable to move his lips around the wide rim of the pitcher. Watson was aghast. He racked his brain for a solution – it had to be quick. Unless Holmes could be revived with some water, Watson was going to have to carry him all the way out.  
  
He brought the pitcher to his own lips and gulped in a mouthful of water. He put the pitcher down and angled Holmes’ face towards him.  
  
 _Forgive the familiarity, my dear Holmes…_  
  
Watson bent and brought his lips to Holmes’ mouth; he dribbled the water slowly into the man’s mouth and stroked his neck firmly. He paused briefly. It worked! He could feel Holmes swallowing under his fingertips.  
  
He did it again. And again. The fourth time Holmes brought a trembling hand to Watson’s face.  
  
“Am I dead, then? Do I finally get what I wish so much for now that I am dead?”  
  
“No! Dear man, you are very much alive and I intend you to stay that way. Also, let it be known that I am an idiot and I love you very much.” Watson bent once more and quickly kissed him. “Do you think you might be able to stand?”  
  
Holmes cold fingers stroked over his cheek and he said, “Dear boy, I believe I could walk on air just now.”  
  
Watson could not laugh – Holmes’ state was too precarious – but he allowed himself to smile and tease with, “Just when did you become the romantic, Mr Holmes?” He lifted Holmes to his feet, wrapping an arm around him in support.  
  
“More water,” the man gasped, and Watson had to refuse him.  
  
“Not now, Holmes. It will make you sick to have any more just now. When we are out of this place I will give you some.”  
  
They shuffled forward, and Watson took the lantern, deciding it was worth the risk of discovery to have the extra light on the way back upstairs.  
  
“You… are worse… than Mrs Hudson,” came Holmes’ protest. Watson spared a thought for the level of their landlady’s likely cosseting once he had Holmes back home in Baker Street.  
  
“Brace yourself, Holmes. The worst is yet to come,” he huffed as they struggled up the narrow staircase together.  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

  
So concentrated was Watson on watching Holmes’ feet as they climbed from the cellar that he had not anticipated the sharp steel that pressed upon his neck once they had emerged into the larger space of the ground floor. He froze and tightened his grip around Holmes waist: he had fought hard to retrieve his friend and he would not yield him once more to these fiends.  
  
The man spoke a string of words in a guttural accent, one that Watson could not place, save for a slight Prussian sound to it. Watson carefully shook head side-to-side to indicate that he could not understand the man. He studied him closely by the light of the lantern, acutely aware of Holmes’ weakening state. His friend had slumped across Watson as he stood there, held in place by the point of a knife. Not taking his eyes off their assailant, Watson felt Holmes’ hands fumbling for purchase on Watson’s coat, his faint, distressed moans causing Watson’s heart to splinter with sympathy and concern. Holmes would not long survive another incarceration – he must do something!  
  
Before Watson could begin to formulate a plan, several things happened at once.  
  
Watson heard a clear voice from the upper staircase calling, “Dr Watson, sir? Are you there?”  
  
Watson’s breath stuck in his throat as the smuggler turned quickly towards the sound of the latest threat. It was Clarke, and unless Watson shouted a warning to the young constable, he would face an attack from this vicious-looking brute with nothing to defend himself but a standard police truncheon.  
  
There was nothing else he could do. Watson muttered, “Sorry, Holmes,” and took a deep breath.  
  
Their assailant had all the instincts that one in his profession must possess to make a successful career out of crime. He spun back to face Watson and the knifepoint pressed against Watson’s throat with purpose.  
  
In the very next instant Holmes straightened and fired Watson’s revolver at the smuggler, dropping him dead instantly.  
  
The revolver hit the tiled floor but Watson didn’t hear it. He was too busy lowering Holmes’ suddenly limp form to the floor to react to Clarke’s alarmed shout, or to the stampede of booted feet that he could hear in wake of it. Nothing existed for him except Holmes’ face, grey and slack as Watson sat slumped, cradling Holmes over his lap. “No, no, no…” he whispered in despair, his fingers frantically searching for a pulse in Holmes’ wrist, his neck, and in final desperation, sliding his hand inside Holmes’ filthy trousers to press fingers against the side of Holmes’ groin.  
  
There.  _There!_  
  
It was enough. It had to be enough. “I need help!” he shouted, only then realising that he was surrounded by silent policemen watching him with a mixture of worry and astonishment. The smuggler lay abandoned behind them, his eyes empty of life.  
  
The policemen stepped back as one to reveal Inspector Lestrade, accompanied by two constables bearing a stretcher.  
  
“Here now, Doctor – let us carry him to the Maria. You can take him quick as you like to the Hospital.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Watson agreed. “There’s no time to waste, Inspector.”  
  
Lestrade waved at the two stretcher-bearers. “Mind how you go, lads – Mr Holmes has been through an ordeal I should think, let’s not inflict any further injuries, do you hear?”  
  
There was a quick murmur assent from the two men and they placed the stretcher next to Watson. Two other policemen bent to assist with lifting Holmes onto the stretcher, and Clarke crouched next to Watson. He placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Are you hurt, Dr Watson?”  
  
He held up an unshuttered dark lantern and peered into Watson’s face. Watson glanced briefly at him. “No, I’m perfectly fine,” he hastened to assure the young man. “Careful!” he said to the policeman steadying Holmes’ head as he was placed on the stretcher.  
  
“Dear Lord.” It was one of the policemen looking at the smuggler’s body.  
  
“He shot ‘im square between the eyes!”  
  
Watson was walking directly beside the stretcher as it was carried through to the entrance of the building. He didn’t notice the substance of the muttering around him, all he could admit to his attention was the pale face of the prone man who seemed to hold Watson’s life in his unconscious hands.  
  
As the men lifted the stretcher into the back of the large, black carriage, a constable handed him his revolver with a strange smile. “That was very handy shooting, Doctor.”  
  
“What?” Watson looked up at the man. “Oh, yes,” he began distractedly, “I don’t know how he did it. He was barely conscious, there was no light apart from my lantern, and he was in the wrong position for a clear shot. He’s a marvel.” Watson looked at the police carriage as it began to pull away. “Thank you!” he said, waving his revolver in farewell and pulling himself up to sit next to the driver.  
  
The policeman watched the carriage roll through the gates and onto the road. His colleagues wondered at his shocked expression. He just shook his head in reply, and his baffled expression left them none the wiser.  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes needs help from a friend. The only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta’d. It’s bad habit for which I apologise.

The medical staff at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital had long since given up trying to convince Watson to leave them to work in peace. It had been two days since Holmes had been admitted to the Hospital and they were now in the habit of leaving the care of their (in)famous patient to his personal physician. If Dr Watson had need of their assistance, he could ask for it. The fact that Dr Watson had achieved his own level of celebrity, quite apart from Mr Holmes, meant that the doctors on staff at Bart’s allowed him some liberties with the Hospital’s rules and regulations. For those who’d had the pleasure of making the previous acquaintance of the good Doctor, it had been a surprise that such a polite and friendly fellow had expressed so very little gratitude for the forbearance shown to him at all levels by the Hospital staff.  
  
Watson’s attention was elsewhere.  
  
In the two days that had passed since Holmes’ release, from the clutches of the very blackest blackguards Watson had yet encountered, Holmes had lost the grey cast to his features that had transformed his complexion from pale to deathly. Still, Watson’s mind was not entirely eased. Holmes had spent a great deal of time sleeping – quite unnatural for Holmes, and Watson could only ascribe it to the fact that the man had completely exhausted himself in the days leading up to his capture.  
  
He painstakingly plied Holmes with beef broth, made by Mrs Hudson and brought to the Hospital by one of Holmes’ urchins, and regular sips of water – measured out to the last drop under Watson’s unwavering eye. He had also bathed Holmes, refusing the assistance of a male nurse, for – by God! – he had not come this far with Holmes only to have another man lay hands upon his body, and never mind the circumstances!  
  
When they were completely alone, Watson held his hand. When Holmes’ older brother appeared, as he had that morning, Watson blushed under his piercing grey stare – so like his brother’s and just as perceptive.  
  
He marvelled anew at the man’s size – fully as tall as Sherlock, but more than double his weight. Mycroft Holmes lowered his vast frame into the chair beside his brother’s bed. The chair gave a slight creak and Watson hoped that it would not collapse in protest at the unkind treatment. He spared a sympathetic thought for the pallbearers that would have to carry Mycroft Holmes’ coffin at his funeral – not entirely an irrelevant point, since there was a chance that Watson would be one of them. Perhaps he should begin incorporating more callisthenic exercises into his daily routine in expectation of that inevitable day.  
  
Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat and shifted his gaze from the still figure of his younger brother to Watson. Watson felt entirely exposed under that gaze, and then the man spoke.  
  
“I understand I have you to thank for my brother Sherlock’s somewhat miraculous survival,” the man’s cultured drawl even sounded like Holmes’.  
  
 _Well, of course it does,_  Watson thought sluggishly – he hadn’t yet slept a full night,  _it’s his bloody brother, you fool!_    
  
“A combined effort I should say. Between him and myself,” Watson responded stiffly.  
  
He had determined not to betray the full depth of his feeling, if such a feat were at all possible. Dimly, he wondered how Holmes had intended to keep their arrangement from the man’s knowledge, had Watson agreed to it all that time ago (had it really been only a matter of days?).  
  
“Ah, yes. The matter of the impossible gunshot to the villain’s head?”  
  
 _He must have been to see Lestrade_.Watson nodded slightly. “Just so.”  
  
“And yet, Sherlock would not have been in the position to make such a shot if you had not first released him from his captors,” Mycroft observed thoughtfully.  
  
“Again, a combined effort. Holmes instructed me on how best to help him achieve his escape,” Watson responded, attempting an even tone even as he suppressed a shudder at the memory: the sounds Holmes had made as he squeezed one of his fine, fine hands through that narrow metal cuff. His eyes betrayed him, falling to Holmes’ bandaged left hand; his fingers twitched to take it up in his own again. His eyes darted up to Mycroft Holmes’ face guiltily.  
  
The man’s eyes narrowed very slightly and he raised a single eyebrow. “What do you fear, Doctor?”  
  
It was impossible. He could not hope to deceive the man. He took a deep breath, “Discovery.”  
  
“You need not fear it from me,” the man responded. “I have held your  _joint_  secret,” he nodded towards the prone figure of his younger brother, “quite likely for longer than either of you knew you had one,” he concluded, the merest quirk of his lips betraying his amusement at Watson’s discomforture.  
  
“Oh,” Watson said. There really was nothing further he could think of to say. He stared in shock at the bed sheet covering his friend’s long limbs.  _Did you hear that, Holmes? Your brother knew of our love well before we ourselves did. How very like a Holmes._  “I cannot live without him,” he finally confessed.  
  
Mycroft Holmes gave a weary sigh. “I think these past few days have demonstrated beyond any doubt that my brother, quite literally, cannot seem to live without you.”  
  
“You’re damned right on that score,” Watson said without thought, his underlying anger at Holmes for not including him on the case bubbling over like a pot left to boil too long. He blushed and hastened to add, “I do apologise, Mr Holmes. I’m afraid I’m rather fatigued.”  
  
The elder Holmes waved a languid hand. “I assure you, I take no offense when true communication occurs,” he said calmly. “Indeed, Sherlock insists upon it. Has done since we were boys.”  
  
“Perhaps… perhaps Sherlock and I… have not spoken honestly enough of late. It has led to some unfortunate misunderstanding. It almost cost us his life,” Watson murmured. “I had been thinking too much of appearances and not enough of his,  _our_ , welfare.”  
  
“You may be grateful of the opportunity to rectify that particular problem, I daresay?” Mycroft Holmes enquired, and though Watson knew it to be a rhetorical question he dipped his head in agreement.  
  
“Yes, indeed.”  
  
“St Bartholomew’s medical staff tells me that Sherlock is in no danger of lasting harm from his escapade. They agree that he may continue his recuperation back home in Baker Street once he awakens today."  
  
Watson looked up, startled. “I had no thought of moving him yet, Mr Holmes.”  
  
“Doctor, I ask that you consider the possibility that you require rest and familiar environs in order to help my brother effectively. I would request that you both repair to Baker Street and allow the very able Mrs Hudson to coddle you both for a short while, and that you spend tonight in a bed, rather than on one of these wholly inadequate  _devices_.” The last was said with a moue of distaste for the chair upon which he sat.  
  
Watson suffered a vision of Holmes and himself in bed together and blushed uncontrollably. He glanced back at Mycroft Holmes with a wordless apology in his eyes.  
  
The elder Holmes coughed delicately and looked down at his brother, still sleeping – his slow breaths untroubled by the conversation taking place over his unconscious form. Mycroft Holmes levered his massive bulk up from the chair with a wheeze and gathered his cane. “I’ll bid you both good day now, Doctor,” he said, “You know where to find me if you have any need of my assistance – both now, and in the future.”  
  
Watson rose to shake his hand. “Goodbye, Mr Holmes.”  
  
“Goodbye, Dr Watson,” the man said, and, with a little bow that looked incongruously graceful on his large frame, he left the room.  
  
*  
  
Transport to Baker St had been accomplished with a hansom cab. Watson had sent a message to tell Mrs Hudson of their departure via the same Baker St Irregular who had been bringing Holmes’ broth. As a consequence they had been accosted by a cabbie upon exiting the Hospital. News of Holmes’ latest case had leaked out, apparently. The cab driver refused payment, which was fortunate because Watson had no cash about his person at all. He’d had no time or opportunity to visit the bank since the search for his flatmate had begun.  
  
“Thank you, James,” Holmes said to the driver, once more demonstrating his ability to remember the names of the more humble denizens of his city. He climbed down slowly, leaning on Watson’s arm, and Watson ventured to wrap an arm around his waist to support him on the way up the stairs to their sitting room.  
  
“Rest right here, Holmes, and I will ready your room for you,” Watson said, helping Holmes to the sofa.  
  
“I’m perfectly, all right, you know, Watson,” Holmes protested.  
  
Watson was expecting it. “No, you aren’t,” he contradicted him without heat. “You are going straight back to bed as soon as I turn down your blankets.”  
  
“Really, Watson–”  
  
“Do not argue with me, Holmes. I am your doctor and I know what is best for you!” He stared down at Holmes unflinchingly. He noticed Holmes’ shadowed eyes widening, the man’s surprise evident. Then something shifted in his expression.  
  
“You always know what is best for me?” he queried.  
  
“Yes, I do.”  
  
“What more do I need, pray tell? Apart from bed rest, I mean to say.”  
  
Watson blinked. “I don’t know what–”  
  
“Tut-tut, Watson! It is not a difficult question.”  
  
Holmes’ eyes stared right inside his head and Watson wondered if he should close his eyes to prevent imminent invasion. “I think… that…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You need me?”  
  
“Is that a question, Watson? I assure you that there is no question on the matter from my side of it,” Holmes said with a tilt to his mouth.  
  
Watson noticed that his lips were still very dry, cracking slightly when he smiled even a little. “You need some lotion on your lips,” he observed dimly, his eyes once more locking with Holmes’.  
  
“I need  _your lips_  on my lips.”  
  
Watson gave a heartfelt groan. They had not had the opportunity to engage in anything so intimate since Holmes’ escape. Heat flooded his belly, and very much lower on his body.  
  
“Do not tease so, Holmes! It is hardly the right time for that.”  
  
“A kiss, Watson. Or I believe I will die. Right this second!”  
  
Watson could not help the laugh that bubbled up at this absurd statement. “You are not permitted to die, Holmes, for I have saved you and you are now obligated to me. And I say,  _no dying today!_ ”  
  
Holmes’ smile was wide and genuine. The contrast of his expression on his ravaged countenance made Watson’s heart clench painfully. “God, I love you so,” he murmured, momentarily aghast at his lack of control – his fatigue would be his undoing.  
  
“You simply must kiss me now, Watson, or my heart will give out under the terrific strain which you have just managed to put it under,” Holmes said, his head tipping back against the back of the sofa as he closed his eyes and gasped theatrically.  
  
“My God, you are the worst thespian. Wait, would you? I will take you to your bed in a moment.” Watson hurried away to arrange Holmes’ room, pausing to lock their door on the way.  
  
 _Just in case,_  he thought. Though he really should not have thought that, because, tired he may be, but it was having no dampening effect on the desire he felt for Holmes. The desire he  _allowed_  himself to feel for Holmes. Even as his heart pounded with apprehension, it was a dizzying kind of freedom to admit and embrace his feelings after all this time.  
  
He bustled about the room, pulling the blankets down on the bed and leaving a jug of water and a glass on the table. He gathered a nightshirt and left it on the bed, along with Holmes’ dressing gown.  
  
Watson went to the sitting room. “All is ready for you now, Holmes,” he said.  
  
Holmes looked up at him, “Very well, “ he sighed and pushed himself upright, swaying a little. Watson put out a hand to steady him, catching him under the elbow of his left arm. “Come with me, my dear,” he said and pulled Holmes closer to his body, curving his arm around Holmes’ slim waist without thought.  
  
They approached Holmes’ bed and Holmes sighed. “I have missed my bed these past days, Watson,” he admitted.  
  
“I have missed it myself, Holmes,” Watson said, again cursing his fatigue for loosening his tongue.  
  
“Then you must join me in it, Watson,” said Holmes, “I imagine you need to sleep properly – don’t imagine for a second that I was unaware of your constant presence at my bedside these past two days,” the man continued, though he needn’t have bothered for Watson’s resolve had dwindled to a hair’s breadth. “And, I am sure that you would not sleep soundly unless you were close by to keep me under your watchful gaze.”  
  
“Hmm. You make a good argument, Holmes,” he agreed with a smile. “You change into your nightshirt while I wash and fetch my slippers.”  
  
He left the room briefly, swapping his coat for his dressing gown and his shoes for his slippers. He stopped in the bathroom to wash his face and make use of the tooth powder. He considered shaving and decided that his hands would have to be a damned sight steadier before he put a blade anywhere near his neck.  
  
Holmes was spread artfully on his bed when Watson arrived back in his bedroom. Watson swallowed with a throat gone dry. He took a mouthful from Holmes’ own water glass – they’d already shared drinking water, thus rendering any belated attempts at hygiene ridiculous.  _As for what we may be doing shortly…_  his mind supplied unhelpfully.  
  
“I really must sleep, Holmes,” he almost pleaded, “My self-control is horribly eroded.”  
  
“I would wish you to have no control at all, Watson,” Holmes began with a smirk, “But I do understand your need for it and I would not wish you to regret anything that passes between us from this point onwards.”  
  
Watson’s relief came out as a shuddering sigh. “Thank you, Holmes.”  
  
He took off his slippers and lay down next to the man. “I would like to kiss you, however – very gently, as your lips are in a dreadful state.”  
  
“I would like that, John.”  
  
Watson leaned over and pressed his lips to Holmes’. “Your poor mouth!” he exclaimed softly. He moved his lips to Holmes’ neck, giving in to the urge to kiss and lick the man’s irresistible white skin. “Oh, I shouldn’t do anything more,” he said, pulling away regretfully.  
  
Holmes’ hand caught him behind his neck, held him in place. “Just kiss me a little more – please, Watson!”  
  
Watson stared into Holmes’ grey eyes, so very close that he could see his own reflection in them. Holmes’ expression hinted at the desperation within: his fear of Watson’s withdrawal, even now, after their mutual confessions of love and desire. Watson himself had given the man this feeling of insecurity – his lack of faith in Watson’s devotion stemmed from his own disgraceful refusal of their continued intimacy.  
  
“I will kiss you, Holmes. Only lay back and do not exert yourself,” Watson conceded.  
  
He watched as Holmes obeyed his instructions, keeping his eyes on Watson’s face. Watson stood and removed his dressing gown, his waistcoat, and his collar – conscious all the while of Holmes’ eyes on him. He hesitated, then slid his braces off his shoulders and removed his shirt as well. A low noise came from the bed beside him and Watson moved to lie beside Holmes once more. He leant his weight on one elbow and looked down along Holmes’ long form. Now his mouth watered at the prospect of placing it at any point on Holmes’ body that he cared to. He began as he had started; at Holmes’ neck, while the man made delicious sounds of enjoyment underneath him.  
  
As Watson’s arousal grew (and how had he thought that he could control  _that?_ ), his hips lifted rhythmically, and quite unconsciously. Suddenly he felt Holmes’ right hand grasp his left and tug it down to feel the evidence of Holmes’ own aroused state. He gasped.  
  
“Oh, my lovely man!” He moved his hand to stroke and pet Holmes’ cock, then lifted Holmes’ nightshirt to place his hand on his heated skin. A small part of his mind was still able to think medically, and was reassured that Holmes was showing signs of a good recovery if he could manage such a healthy erection.  
  
“Watson–”  
  
Watson moved his mouth down to lick and kiss along Holmes’ belly, barely thinking anything at all apart from placing his lips just…there…  
  
“Ah! Sweet sodding Christ!”  
  
Watson raised his head and grinned at Holmes. “Tsk, Holmes! Such blasphemous language is not worthy of you.”  
  
“Bloody hell, Watson! Put your mouth back this very instant!”  
  
Watson was only too happy to oblige. In short order Holmes spent himself in Watson’s mouth, a strangled whimper escaping his control.  
  
Watson rose to find some lotion for Holmes’ cracked lips, applying it with a delicate touch and kissing the man once before laying down beside him. He felt such peace and satisfaction that his own arousal faded slowly and he finally succumbed to sleep.  
  
Unobserved, Holmes turned on his side and watched his lover dream.  
  
`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~


End file.
